


The Apocalypse Machine

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 10:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22494532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: Bingo prompt: apocalypseThe end of the world doesn't look the same to everyone.Let's self-indulgently, onanistically generically continue the stupid crap I did here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422591    It would take someone gently breathing in my general direction for me to want to continue this.  You have been warned.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31
Collections: Gen Prompt Bingo Round 12





	The Apocalypse Machine

The screen buzzed for Rung’s attention--incoming transmission. It was the end of a long day on the Lost Light, but, well, that’s how things went in his field. Mechs didn’t schedule their crises to fit working hours. 

Rung clicked on. 

A long pause, and then words on the screen, white, almost old-school, archaic. 

::ARE YOU ALONE::

The cursor blinked waiting for an answer. 

::yes:: No need to yell, after all, even in typeface. 

::SECURE::

Was that a question or a command? Whoever it was seemed allergic to punctuation. Rung sighed, though, but got up to secure the door to his office before returning and typing ::yes::

The screen flickered to color. Oh. It was… “Sixshot.” 

“Yeah.” The white mask, orange optics. He hadn’t seen them in a while. Rung had been fine with not seeing them ever again. 

“Rumor had it you were... uh…”

“Dead.” A noncommittal huff. “Yeah. I heard that, too.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad to see it’s not true.” Was he, though? Rung wasn’t quite sure. The one thing he was glad of, though, was that unlike last time, Sixshot wasn’t going to be able to grab him by the throat. 

“I’m not.” 

Well, that definitely seemed wrong. And was maybe why he’d called. And as Rung studied the image on the screen, something seemed off. Sixshot seemed less...bulky, somehow. And those spatters of pink…?

“Is everything all right?” A bland intro, and honestly, Rung was embarrassed. He was a professional. He shouldn’t get rattled. Even by a Phase Sixer having his private comm line. Yes, nothing disturbing about that at all. 

“Nothing is.” 

“Could you be, well, just a little more specific?”

A grunt, and the optics slid away from the screen. These mechs with face masks: so blessed hard to read. Then again, what was probably the reason for them. Finally, after a long moment, and several shifts of body position, Sixshot muttered, “...bored.” 

“You’re bored.”

Another grunt, and a nod. “War’s over.” 

“Oh.” OH! What was a Phase Sixer supposed to do with no worlds to destroy? “Listen,” Rung said, scooching closer to the screen. “You’re not the only mech with this problem.” Six million years of war was a long time. It was hard for a lot of mechs to shift gears, to find some new purpose, some new meaning. Hard, but not impossible. 

“The others--like me--are dead.” He did seem to like the word ‘dead’. 

The shanix dropped, pieces falling into place. “Sixshot. You’re not...are you...do you want to be dead?” 

The optics slid off screen again, and one shoulder hitched in a shrug. “Be easier.” 

“Easier,” Rung echoed. A good technique, mirroring. “You don’t seem like a mech that goes for the easy way, Sixshot.” 

“Got the Devil King rigged to explode.” A sentence. A whole sentence. In any other time it would have been a miracle. Sixshot shifted back, the comm cam revealing missing armor, pried off, nearly exposing the spark chamber. “Got enough of this off, should be enough.” Enough to kill him, he meant. 

“Please don’t,” Rung said, barely above a breath. The intention. A plan. A plan half done. He’d called...why? To say goodbye to someone, anyone? Or to (Rung desperately hoped) to be talked out of it? 

Long silence, then a grunt. One shoulder moved, and Rung realized that Sixshot was preparing to cut the commlink. He needed to keep him talking. “Did you enjoy it? During the war?” Not an elegant question, but one that came from haste. Just keep him talking. Just keep him on line. He might be a Decepticon, and one with serious, serious issues, but Rung was Rung and a mech in pain was something he couldn’t just let go. Sixshot had called him, and for a reason. 

“No. Yes.” A sigh. “Sometimes.” 

“Sometimes.” More echoing. I’m listening, Rung tried to project. I’m here. 

“Powerful. Purpose.” 

Ah. And those were hard to come by, now, for a mech designed, armored, and weaponized to destroy planets. “Other mechs have made some adjustments.” He’d said as much, earlier, but sometimes it took a couple of times for words to sink in. 

A scornful look. “Scientists. Medics. Mechs like you. Easy.” 

Yes, it had been almost seamless, for Rung, the move between war and peacetime. The only difference was that most of his cases now were voluntary, not mandated psych exams. 

“You think all you can do is destroy.” 

“Not think. Know.” 

And there was no place for that, anymore. Rung was struggling to think of something else to say when Sixshot--voluntarily--spoke again. Without prompting. Progress?

“Even Megatron,” the Phase Sixer said. 

It was a bit of an oversimplification, but Sixshot, in Rung’s acquaintance, wasn’t a mech for nuance. “Yes,” Rung affirmed. “Megatron’s made some, erm, adjustments.” Like being co-captain of the Lost Light. “If he can, surely you can as well.” 

Sixshot shook his head. “He can talk.” A black plated hand spread, just on the bottom of the screen, like letting go. Megatron could talk, full of conviction and eloquence. Even Rung envied that about him, and his charisma. And all Sixshot had was a superpowerful ship and a lifetime experience in destruction. And himself. 

Maybe that was the key. 

“Why don’t you come here?” Rung asked. 

“What.” Ah, Sixshot, still somehow thinking questions were weakness. 

“Come here! The Lost Light. We can talk in person,” Right, because that went so well last time. Reminder: get some reinforcements for his throat plating. “And you can meet other mechs.”

A laugh. It sounded rusty, deep in the throat, but a laugh. Sixshot, actually laughing. It was...less unsettling than it had any right to be. “Don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“Honestly, Sixshot,” Rung said, earnestly. “Do you honestly have anything better to do?” Pressing on a wound, he thought. But it was necessary. A little hurt to save a bigger one. 

Sixshot’s head tilted, considering. “Worst thing that happens is your ship makes the mistake of shooting at me.” A Phase Sixer’s private ship, rigged to self destruct? That seemed like a pretty bad thing, all around. For everyone. Rung would have to make sure that didn’t happen. 

“Exactly,” Rung said, though, agreeable. Anything to get the other mech to think about the future, to make a plan, to get here. And maybe, maybe, he could help him. “Be a b-better way to go than all by yourself.” He wasn’t used to thinking like that, talking like that. But it felt like it would get through to Sixshot, and those feelings had never been wrong before. 

It worked again, apparently. “All right.” And the words sounded like an admission of weakness, a surrender, from a mech who had spent six million years refusing either. Sixshot’s hands moved, below view of the cam--programming a course into the Devil King’s nav. 

Rung felt his shoulders relax, the immediate crisis passed. Even a klik’s more time alive was a klik more time for...anything to happen. Being open to that when one was hurting was a kind of courage most mechs never had to have--just being in pain, and taking that next cycle of air. Sometimes it was all one could do. And Sixshot was doing it. 

“Sixshot?” He spoke softly, afraid to ruin the balance. “Are you going to--do you think it would be good to have a medic, on standby?” The purple spatters of energon had him worried, though he suspected Sixshot had survived far, far worse. De-armoring was a dangerous process. It wasn’t just popping off pieces. And he couldn’t see how much Sixshot had done, but even what he had seen was worrying. 

A long pause, optics dropping to scan. “Probably.” 

“Okay.” He pushed gratitude into his voice, knowing what it took to answer that question honestly. Even if, like Sixshot, one only spoke in begrudging phrases and half-sentences. “I look forward to seeing you again.” He didn’t, really, because Sixshot still scared the slag out of him, and the idea of another Phase Sixer on the ship where the memory of Overlord was just a little too recent was absolutely terrifying. But this was what he did, and he’d be glad to see a live mech over a suicide any day. That much was honest. 

The orange optics studied his blue ones through the screen. Rung added a fledgling smile. “Hnnnf,” Sixshot said, and the comm link died, cut off. 

But Rung knew what that meant. Sixshot had believed him, all of it, and was coming, for help. For his help. For a chance at life. That’s what mattered. 

And that’s what he told himself as he pinged Rodimus. Primus, may this go well. “Uh, something’s happened. I’m going to need to meet with you as soon as possible. And, uh, Ultra Magnus, as well.” 

**Author's Note:**

> As an EMT, I've been to several signal 50 suicides. I've seen police officers in tears and shaking. I've sat with parents and had to tell them their child was gone. Your death is a loss to this world. You can't see it, but that's the demon depression putting blinders on you. Sometimes you need help tearing those blinders off. It's brave to ask for that help.


End file.
